


Plagal

by vix_spes



Series: Cadence [2]
Category: Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky (2009), Deadline Gallipoli (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom
Genre: Flirting, Hannibal Extended Universe, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 19:42:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14456397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/pseuds/vix_spes
Summary: Ellis hopes that it might be third time lucky with the elusive Igor.





	Plagal

**Author's Note:**

> This follows on directly from [Interrupted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14013171) so you may want to read that first.

Four days after the dinner party at the Princesse de Polignac’s, Ellis dressed himself for the opera in his best evening suit. He was taking no chances this evening in his attempt to get to have something more than a fleeting encounter with the mysterious Igor Stravinsky. To that end, he was doing something that he would have considered unthinkable too long ago and was going without a date. It was his hope that, if he didn’t have a woman hanging off his arm, then maybe he would be more successful at gaining the reclusive Russian’s attention.

Unsurprisingly, the entirety of Parisian society had turned up for the evening although Ellis couldn’t help but wonder why. These were the same people who had all but caused a riot seven years earlier, horrified by what they perceived to be a controversial work. From what Ellis had heard, only the choreography had been changed and even that not much. Musical tastes in the City of Light certainly hadn’t developed that much in the last seven years. If they hadn’t liked the music then, Ellis was fairly certain they wouldn’t like it now. Then again, that was assuming that it was the music that was the problem.

As he got swept up by the throng, Ellis caught sight of familiar faces, many of whom had been at the party several days earlier. Ever the journalist, Ellis had selected a seat towards the back of the stalls where he could observe the audience as well as the performance. He nodded in greeting to several of the American ex-patriots, shook hands and exchanged a few words with his journalistic colleagues and watched as the woman in white from the party sailed down the centre aisle to a seat near the front. Once again, she was dressed in pristine white, utterly fashionable and chic and, yet again, was the cause of some tension in the air between herself and the same group of Slavic gentlemen from the party, seated at the front of the stalls. Fragments of whispered gossip reached Ellis’ ears and, suddenly, it clicked. The woman was Coco Chanel, the woman who had reputedly been Stravinsky’s lover and who was said to have bankrolled the new production.

Before Ellis could observe anything else, the orchestra started tuning and, unnoticed by anyone but Ellis, the unmistakeable figure of Stravinsky slipped into the auditorium just as the conductor took to the podium.

And then it started.

Just as when he had heard it in London, Ellis loved it. There was something visceral about it, a primitive sense that that made the blood thrum in your veins. It was exhilarating, and Ellis couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t find something appealing about it. Then again, the way that it filled the room with an electrifying tension, it made Ellis think of sex, so it was hardly surprising that half the audience was horrified by it. They probably hadn’t had any since the middle of the last century, so there was no wonder that the gyrations on stage were so scandalous to them.

However, as intriguing as the movements of the dancers were, Ellis found the reactions of the composer far more enticing to watch. He was as intense as he had been on the previous two occasions, not caring for the reactions of the audience, but solely focused on the orchestra. It was clear that every single fibre of his being was focused exclusively on the music, the notes and rhythms that had come from deep within him, that he had spilled onto the page. For a brief moment, Ellis allowed himself to wonder what it would be like to have that intense focus directed towards him.

He watched as those long fingers twitched, clearly itching to be holding a baton and conducting rather than observing and Ellis couldn’t help but wonder why the composer wasn’t conducting this performance when he was so clearly unhappy with the job currently being done if the scowl on his face was anything to go by. As one particularly thunderous chord echoed through the theatre, Ellis saw Stravinsky blanch before he turned on his heel and left. Ellis allowed himself all of thirty seconds to question what he was doing before he followed, not caring if he was seen as he slipped past the velvet curtain.

He didn’t have to go far to find Stravinsky, coming across him halfway down a corridor, fiddling with his matchbook. Seizing his opportunity, Ellis pulled his own matches from his pocket and strode forward, wracking his brain for the necessary Russian words – if indeed he’d ever known them.

“Please, allow me to return the favour.” Striking a match, Ellis allowed Stravinsky to light a cigarette before he lit his own, aware of the intense scrutiny he was being subjected to.

“Your Russian is terrible. Perhaps your French is better?”

Ellis chuckled, before answering with an accent that was distinctly un-French. “Better, but by no means perfect.”

“Then we shall speak English; it is better for my ears. You were at the Princesse de Polignac’s the other evening.”

“I was. Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Stravinsky.”

Ellis relished the look of surprise – and maybe a little pleasure, he fancied – on the Russian’s face at Ellis’ words.

“You know who I am.”

“Of course. I’m delighted that we’ve finally had the opportunity to converse. I had hoped to meet you at the London premiere of Rite, but I heard that you were taken ill.”

“You have seen my work before? You came again?” There was a decided note of incredulity in Stravinsky’s tone.

“Why would I not?”

Stravinsky made a rather imperious gesture towards the auditorium that they had abandoned. “If it were not what society dictated, many of them would not return. They are here because they are expected to be, not because they have any love for the art.”

“But is it the music they dislike or the ballet?” Ellis found the slight tilt of the head that he received in response particularly charming.

The response, when it came, was almost flirtatious in tone, which sent delight thrumming through Ellis.

“Which do you think it is that they find fault with?”

“Undoubtedly the dancing. Who could find fault with music such as that?”

“You speak as someone who is used to being listened to and agreed with.”

There was a small smile playing on those full lips and Ellis found himself staring, utterly entranced, before he managed to answer the question. “I don’t know if I’d go that far. I’m a journalist; a war correspondent.”

“That would explain your appalling Russian. Tell me, Mr Ashmead-Bartlett, what do you think of Rite?”

“I find it quite unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. Utterly incomparable. It’s exhilarating and passionate and full of life.”

“And how does it make you feel?”

Unsurprisingly, Ellis made a decision that not only downright skirted the edges of propriety but, in all probability, stepped over the edge. Still, he had never been one to play safe. Besides, he was a man of the world and he knew flirting when he saw it. Whilst this may be a very polite exchange, there was no doubting the flirtation under the surface. “How does it make me feel? Far more than is appropriate for polite society.”

Ellis watched as Stravinsky’s eyes dilated and his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip but, before anything else could happen, there was the sound of thunderous applause from within the auditorium and, within minutes, they were surrounded by the same group of gentlemen who had stolen Stravinsky away from Ellis at the Princesse de Polignac’s.

It was strange, nothing had happened. There had been no intimate contact; they hadn’t had sex, they hadn’t kissed. Hell, they hadn’t even touched, yet Ellis couldn’t find a fault with the interaction. More than a little unusual given Ellis’ usual modus operandi. He was oddly fascinated with Igor Stravinsky and, while he was satisfied with their meeting, Ellis couldn’t help but hope that their paths would cross once more.


End file.
